


wither

by parkjinchu



Category: ASTRO (Band)
Genre: Angst, Brain Cancer, Cancer, Disease, Fluff, Hospitalization, Illnesses, Leukemia, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Mentions of Cancer, Minor Character Death, Sort of? - Freeform, basically very sad astro sadness, i cant promise much for your happiness :"), i mean hes a major character but hes there for like 2 chapters and hes pretty glossed over, im so sorry sanha i really really love you i really really do, tags will be added as the fic continues and i upload new chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2018-12-20 03:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11911842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parkjinchu/pseuds/parkjinchu
Summary: Park Jinwoo's own body wants him dead. There is an illness that plagues him, that is destroying him from the inside out. All he can do is sit and watch.this is a work of fiction, and in no way represents the real lives of astro's members. in case of astro/fantagio/reasonable fan request, this fic will be taken downread full disclaimer on my profilechose not to use archive warnings: please read warnings in tags!





	1. Day by Day

**Author's Note:**

> helllooooo :)  
> lets start off with a few disclaimers: i have little connection with cancer, and hardly any connection with the cancer mentioned in this fic. i am constantly researching to get things right. if i get anything wrong or offend anyone, im sorry, and please let me know so i can correct it.  
> i wanted this to be rather deep and long and drawn out, but its not really working. maybe one day, i'll make a revamp ;)  
> i hope you dont feel too sad when reading. please enjoy even if it makes you a little bit sad :)

The days are always the same.

\--

The sun rises, slowly dragging across the sky, dying the night orange and yellow. Birds dance high among the clouds, singing sweetly from their nests. The smell of breakfast hovers through the house, warm and delicious. The television mumbles the world news – no particularly alarming events have occurred. Life remains as it had been the day before.

The dog next door yaps and whines until she is fed. The chalk on the street corner has faded and been drawn over again. Students flow into the school grounds, friends hanging on their arms or earphones in their ears. The breeze is mild and rhythmic. Life goes on; changing for no one, stopping for no one.

Jinwoo kicks at the pebbles on the sidewalk as he walks to school, humming along to the music playing through the buds in his ears. His shoes crunch along the cement, the breeze brushes through his hair and the sun caresses his skin. Life, as it continues, blesses all those in its grasp. Approaching the school gates, a short boy with tousled hair waits, heel tapping against the metal bars. Myungjun, is his name – Jinwoo’s best friend – and he believes that the school gates too closely resemble jail cell bars. Which is, Jinwoo believes, an ironically accurate observation.

Tugging out his earphones, Jinwoo approaches him. Myungjun, not only short, has wide eyes and rounded cheeks. His eyebrows frame those curious and sparkling eyes of his, and they taper down into his pointed and endearing nose, politely set in the centre of his face. His sweet lips, full and round and plush, form around his words, usually funny or charming. Kim Myungjun is gorgeous – Kim Myungjun is nothing but a best friend.

“Park Jinwoo! Early, as per usual,” Myungjun snickers, tugging on Jinwoo’s arm and pulling them both into the school grounds. A long path splits the entirety of the grounds in half, which leads directly into the open mouth of the school building. On either side of them is greenspace, a tennis court and football field, and the like. Other’s conversations mumble around them, but they’re easily ignored.

Jinwoo rolls his eyes, “Firstly, I’m neither early nor late. Secondly, you’re always here earlier than me. You _wait_ for me,” he points out, which makes a delightful giggle bubble out of the boy by his side, whose cheeks paint a soft pink. He tips his head back as he laughs, childlike in nature.

“Did you finish the math homework?” Myungjun asks, kicking a tuft of grass that pokes through a crack in the pavement. “I had trouble – I should probably go see Miss, but I can’t be fucked,” he whines, the cuss unapologetically slipping from his lips. Everything about Myungjun is as such: unapologetically happy, unapologetically blunt, unapologetically _unique_.

“Wanna copy mine?” Jinwoo asks, jabbing his thumb behind him, at his backpack. “I finished it all,” he smirks. “In perfectly un-Jinwoo fashion, I completed the homework first!”

Myungjun’s face splits into a grin, so bright it could rival the sun. Not the moon, because the moon shines in the darkness, but Myungjun provides all the light that Jinwoo could ever need. “You’d let me copy? I knew I befriended you for a reason,” he quips, nudging Jinwoo in the side, chuckling to himself. “I’ll copy when we get up to the classroom,” he declares.

Jinwoo takes a wider step, turning behind him so he faces Myungjun, now walking backwards. “Race you there?” He dares, flicking around and sprinting down the path, backpack bobbing on his back.

Heavy, thumping footsteps rumble behind him, as Myungjun calls out, “No fair! You got a head start!” The pair race through the doors and up the stairs, narrowly avoiding fellow students and staff, skidding into their classroom. Myungjun – by only half a second – slaps his hand down on his desk first. “I win!” He screeches, ignoring the bewildered stares of their cohort.

Jinwoo, heaving breaths, falls lazily into his seat. His lungs feel tight and searing as they struggle to gather oxygen back. He laughs dully, settling back and allowing his body to cool down. Myungjun wipes the sweat from his brow, sidling over to Jinwoo’s desk and leaning on it. “What was that? You almost always win, _and_ you had a head start!” He chuckles, dropping into the seat beside the boy. “Anyway, where’s that homework?”

“Hey! I’m tired, I guess. I _actually_ finished my homework,” Jinwoo excuses, handing him the papers. Myungjun gratefully accepts them, copying them into his work book.

Then, suddenly, it feels as if Jinwoo’s eyes might sink into his brain. The words Myungjun writes seem to melt into each other, for a moment. Jinwoo wonders why he is writing everything twice, before he realises it’s his vision. The classroom seems to spin briefly, tilting and overlapping in front of him. His head feels heavy, as if it had been inflated like a pool float. Then, as quickly as the feeling arrived, it left.

Jinwoo hisses, as his head steadies itself, thumbs rubbing at the leftover ache above his eyes.

“You okay?” Myungjun asks, peering over at him from behind the papers. His eyebrows knit together, a cute crinkle above the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah, just a bit dizzy,” Jinwoo mumbles, shaking his head. He was okay, now.

Myungjun chuckles. “You must’ve pushed yourself too hard, JinJin,” he smiles. “I have some water in my bag. Rehydrate, or it might happen again.”

Jinwoo shakily digs through Myungjun’s bag for his water bottle. As he takes a swig, he hopes rehydration is all it will take to prevent _whatever_ just happened from coming back.

\--

The sun rises, again. Again, and again. It’s not until three days later when the world before Jinwoo’s eyes splits in half and melts together, once more.

Myungjun is beside him, animatedly chatting with a classmate. The swelling in the back of his head is slow to begin with, until it erupts in a pounding, head splitting ache. The boy – whose name Jinwoo can’t remember at the present moment – is laughing at something Myungjun must have said, when his chuckle sounds garbled and robotic, as if Jinwoo had dumped his head under water.

Clutching onto the window sill beside him, Jinwoo braces himself as the hallway spins. He can’t see Myungjun, behind the black dots that gather over his vision. Panic swells up in his belly, hot and bubbling, and he reaches out in the direction he’d last seen the boy. He grasps nothing but the air, and feels the floor slide out from underneath him. And, then, nothing.

It’s only about thirty seconds later, according to Myungjun, when Jinwoo comes too. His vision clears and the thumping headache dissolves.

The classmate is clutching onto Jinwoo’s arms, supporting him where his bottom dangles above the ground. Myungjun is holding Jinwoo’s face in his hands, pushing his hair away from his forehead and gently rubbing his thumbs over the plush of his cheeks. Myungjun’s touch is heartfelt and comforting – Jinwoo wants to curl into his protective warmth.

“Jinwoo?” He asks, usually teasing voice trembling slightly. A sadness stirs in his chest at the sound of Myungjun’s hurt voice, but he doesn’t have the energy to apologise or ask. Jinwoo’s brain feels as if it were a pile of embers, burnt out to its finality. “Are you okay?”

Softly, Jinwoo nods. He smiles lightly, “Did I pass out for a minute there?” He chuckles, but the sound creates a dull ache somewhere to the left of his brain. His words are slow and lilted, and when he finishes his sentence, Myungjun’s fingers unconsciously thread through the shorter hairs at the back on Jinwoo’s head.

“We’re not sure,” the classmate laughs, and Jinwoo notices a slight scowl shrivel Myungjun’s lips. “Can you stand?” The classmate’s hold shakes slightly – Jinwoo doesn’t want to stand, but he can feel their acquaintance growing weak.

Jinwoo stumbles to his feet, finding his bearings, straightening out his uniform and fixing his hair. Myungjun warily lets him go, hands hovering by his side, spotting him as if he were walking on a tightrope, about to fall off. “You sure you’re okay?” Myungjun asks, peering into his eyes. His gaze is sharp, uncharacteristically stern.

“Yeah,” he answers, in the hopes of watching the worry cease in Myungjun’s eyes, earning the chance to watch the shine return. “Just got dizzy again,” he waves it off.

“Jinwoo, how much sleep are you getting?” Myungjun asks, wringing his hands together. “Maybe you’re suffering fatigue?”

The brunette shrugs. “Possibly,” he replies.

They leave it at that.

That night, when Jinwoo goes to shower, he spots purpling bruises around his arms, thick and chunky as if a rope had been pulled taut around them. He can vaguely recognise the shape of four fingers, and around the top, a thumb. He didn’t think that classmate had held him so tightly when he’d fallen that morning.

Running his fingers over the bruise, cautiously, it doesn’t hurt. The skin blossoms white under his skin as the pressure passes, until the mottled, dark appearance returns. Experimentally, he digs his thumb into the shadow of his classmate’s hand, and howls at the sting.

\--

The moon is still in the sky when the sun rises.

Jinwoo notes this, on his way to school. He doesn’t listen to music, because his skull feels like it’s trying to tear itself apart down the centre. The dull whir of traffic is almost too much for his head. His mother had assured him, whilst handing him two pain relievers, that his headache would be gone before school began.

Myungjun waits patiently by the gates, as per usual, and greets him cheerily. Jinwoo doesn’t want to tell him to lower his voice, doesn’t want to call attention to the pain he’s in and make Myungjun worry – so, he suffers in silence.

The headache doesn’t leave.

Another set of bruises blossom blue and grey over Jinwoo’s knees, like two rain clouds. His skin turns to paper, after a few days – pale and frail. The natural creases between his joints darken, his skin tears far too easily. Confusion and fear are a toxic concoction in Jinwoo’s brain, made no better by Myungjun’s worried questions.

The topic of Jinwoo’s health becomes vetoed whenever it is suggested, brushed under the carpet for a day they aren’t sure will come. Part of Jinwoo hopes the dizzy spells will cease and his skin will grow darker again, and they’ll laugh at out funny he looked, losing muscle and the chub in his cheeks.

\--

The day they discover what is wrong is _painfully_ similar to every other day.


	2. Failing Tests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“It could be a mistake,” his mother had said, her smile tight. “They’re just being cautious.” Jinwoo wonders who she’s trying to comfort in saying this.  
>  There had been an opening in the clinic’s schedule. They said to come around that afternoon. Jinwoo doesn’t want to think about why someone’s check-up was cancelled, so he pushes it out of his mind._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i posted the second chapter quite quickly bc its a lot more interesting than the first! i hope this will make you stick around!! ive completed chapter three but i probably wont post it until i complete up to 5 :D  
> please read the end notes :)

“I’m worried about you,” Jinwoo’s mother says, over breakfast.

“Quieter, mum, please,” Jinwoo hisses, gripping at his head. “I’m fine. The internet said _fatigue_ and _being a teenager_. The school nurse _also_ said that.”

She rolls her eyes, handing him another small bowl. Jinwoo doesn’t think he can stomach it, but accepts it anyway. “School nurses only know how to open a Band-Aid and freeze an icepack.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Jinwoo mumbles, tucking a mouthful of breakfast into his mouth. His stomach curls, begging for him not to swallow it. “Miss Choi is very friendly, and I watched her clean a graze one of the football players got,” he says, around the half-chewed food.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she chides, with a grimace, as Jinwoo manages to swallow the last helping.

She smooths down his bed-hair, wild and fluffy. With her hands, her long fingers, soothing over his scalp. Until, she reaches a point near the back of the crown of his skull, and a sharp pain slithers over his head and down his neck. He cries out, pulling away from her comforting hands and clutching at his head. “You have a bruise,” she notes, dully.

“Fuck, I know now!” He cries, ignoring her scolding for the swear. His ears cringe at his loud voice, making him wince.

“Maybe it’s anaemia,” she mumbles, to no one in particular. “That explains the pale skin, the bruising… The fatigue.” She counts on her fingers, attempting to recall anaemia’s many symptoms. Jinwoo is sure she’s mixed some up, but he doesn’t let her know.

Something stirs uncomfortably in his stomach, hot and uncomfortable. He tries to push the thought away. “Can I get some aspirin? My head feels like it’s tearing itself apart,” he whines.

His mother steps away to fetch some aspirin, popping two out into her hand and pouring him a glass of water. They’d bought so much pain relief, lately. There’s a limit on how much the human body can handle in 24-hours, but is there a limit on how much it can handle in a lifetime?

His stomach aches.

Jinwoo places the first pill on his tongue, about to drag some water down with it, when his stomach lurches. Spitting the water out over the counter, he races to the bathroom, and spills what little breakfast he’d eaten into the toilet bowl.

His mother hurries after him, dainty footsteps patting behind him. She rubs his heads softly, careful around the bruise, petting his back as he continues to heave. “Maybe we should see a doctor,” she mumbles, quietly.

Jinwoo’s elbows are larger than they used to be, she notes, like golf-balls perched on their tees; or, perhaps, he’d grown thinner.

\--

The dial tone is as impatient as Jinwoo is – a frenzied, high pitched beeping, ringing in his ear as he attempts to connect with Myungjun. Just when he’s sure he’ll be redirected to voicemail, his best friend’s cheery voice crackles down the line. _“Park Jinwoo! How are you?”_

“I’m good,” he smiles, the lie falling from his lips before he knows it.

Myungjun’s giggle is loud in his ear. He hopes Myungjun can’t hear him click the volume down on his phone to protect his headache. _“You’re late! What’s up?”_ Myungjun asks, humming to close his sentence.

“Myungjun,” he starts, feeling guilt like a hot stone in his chest. “I’m not coming to school, today.”

 _“What?”_ Myungjun asks, surprised. _“Why?”_

“Mum insisted we go to the doctors, today. She found a bruise on my head and decided I’m anaemic and need to be tested,” he whines, tapping the back of his phone idly. He wishes he were with Myungjun, instead. They could be in the courtyard, by now, laughing at the new episode of the stupid romance drama everyone seems to love, or singing along to an old favourite song.

 _“It could be anaemia!”_ Myungjun enthusiastically agrees, _“I actually had that thought a while ago. Your mum isn’t very quick on the uptake.”_

“Are you guys placing bets on my health, or something?” Jinwoo chuckles, watching his mother gather her keys and handbag. She smiles humorously at him, sliding her sunglasses onto the crown of her head.

 _“Well, no… We’re just… Worried,”_ Myungjun admits, quietly. _“You had a pretty sudden decline, there, JinJin.”_

Scoffing, Jinwoo replies, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 _“I just… Think about it. All these headaches, the dizziness, the bruises. Your skin is paling. You lost a bit of weight. You can’t run for long anymore, and I’m sure if you had the energy to do a sit-up you wouldn’t be able to because you’ve lost muscle.”_ Myungjun rambles, and Jinwoo imagines him counting on his fingers.

“Since when did you keep such close tabs on me?” He mumbles.

Myungjun is silent for a moment. _“I-I just… I was worried about you, alright?”_ He stutters. _“You’re my – my best friend, it’s… It’s hard to miss these things.”_

Jinwoo doesn’t say anything in response, appreciative for the care Myungjun had taken in watching over him.

_“Good luck at the appointment today, yeah? Keep me updated.”_

“I will.” Jinwoo allows a smile to climb onto his lips. “See you, MJ.”

_“See you, JinJin.”_

\--

The clinic is, quite possibly, the most boring place in all of the city.

A waiting room is lined with uncomfortable plastic chairs and laden with two-dollar magazines and half-completed Sudoku books. Posters line the white walls, preaching health benefits and information on various diseases, ranging in severity. Colourful information pamphlets tell readers to seek help and refer to their poor, tired doctors.

Jinwoo observes the people in the room to pass the time. There’s a small child with pale skin and sunken eyes rolling a match-box car back and forth along the stained carpet. There’s an old woman filling out a magazine crossword puzzle. The receptionist is smiling at something on her phone, lips broad and full. A teenage girl and her mother leave one of the private rooms, faces blank, but eyes wide with something akin to fear.

The doctor emerges not a minute later, calling a family name, and the little kid clambers off the floor and follows his mother into the room. The door shuts quietly, and the room is silent again.

Eventually, it’s Jinwoo’s turn to be called in. They settle themselves in the chairs, this time cushioned, opposite the doctor. He’s a thin man with owlish eyes, set behind thick rimmed glasses. He has a calm smile, inviting and honest. He asks what the problem is, and Jinwoo’s mother reels into action, listing his symptoms.

Pale skin. Fatigue. Bruising. Bleeding. Vision problems. Headaches. Dizziness. Vomiting. Weight loss.

As she lists them, Jinwoo mentally keeps count. Were they missing one? Did they say one too many? He’d continued living as if nothing were wrong, ignoring his symptoms with the belief that they’d leave soon. Perhaps it was naïve, he thinks, as the doctor sticks a needle in his arm.

There’s a deep, dull sting as the vile draws blood from his arm. For testing, the doctor says, face stoic as he concentrates on the task at hand. Jinwoo’s mother is holding his hand, letting him squeeze it when the pain increases. He holds onto it tightly for the entirety of the procedure. When finished, the doctor sticks a label on it and says he’ll be back with the results soon, and promptly leaves the room.

Jinwoo is handed a plaster and a cotton-bud to patch up the small hole in his arm. The wound bleeds, almost soaks through the cotton. When he was a child and was given his vaccinations, the cotton-bud barely had a speck of blood on it. When he was a child, he received a sweet of some kind for being co-operative. With age, they don’t bother to sugar-coat things, anymore.

When the doctor returns, he holds only a few slips of paper. The blood he’d taken from Jinwoo’s body is no longer with him. He sits down and turns to Jinwoo’s mother.

It may very well be anaemia.

Jinwoo should go for another test.

They’re handed a list of directions with the instruction to book an appointment as soon as possible. The list is in his mother’s hand, but he can still see what’s listed there.

_Haematology and Oncology._

“Oncology?” Jinwoo asks, interrupting his mother asking another question. “But, that’s cancer.”

No one corrects him.

\--

Jinwoo tries to think of all the moments in his life he’s received bad news.

There was the time he failed the math test he studied furiously for, in middle school. There was the time his dance team didn’t make it into the finals. When Myungjun had a crush on a girl in the next class. When they’d run out of his favourite sweet at the corner store. He tries to weigh these up, now, on his way to the Oncology clinic.

“It could be a mistake,” his mother had said, her smile tight. “They’re just being cautious.” Jinwoo wonders who she’s trying to comfort in saying this.

There had been an opening in the clinic’s schedule. They said to come around that afternoon. Jinwoo doesn’t want to think about why someone’s check-up was cancelled, so he pushes it out of his mind.

Another test, this time, a prick in his other arm. They draw more blood from him, and it’s whisked away. Jinwoo’s results from the previous test are handed over, examined, discussed, filed. Jinwoo and his mother wait patiently for an answer.

The new doctor is a tall woman, hair tied behind her head in a tight ponytail. Her smile is warm, sympathetic, probably perfected after years of practice.

There was no mistake.

_Acute Myeloid Leukaemia._

A cancer with no known cause. A cancer that appears suddenly and grows quickly. A cancer born in the bone marrow and blood stream, effecting the white blood cells. A _cancer_.

Discussion of treatment begins immediately; the teen doesn’t have time to calculate exactly what he’d been told. On the drive home, in the dead silence of the car, Jinwoo ponders.

Realisation settles in his brain like a thick fog. He wants to venture past the idea, to forget it entirely, to pretend it isn’t there; but he can’t see past it. There’s something inside him that wants to kill him. His body is destroying itself.

All he can do is sit and watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, if i get anything wrong please let me know so i can correct myself!  
> hmu on my twitter or tumblr (most active on tumblr) under the name parkjinchu :)  
> hope im not making you too sad, and hope you dont feel worse in the following chapters :)


	3. Medicine Cabinet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You can't have a rainbow without a little rain_  
>  This isn't a day shower. This is a storm, a typhoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: blood, vomiting, all kinds of bodily fluids, depictions of medical procedures, etc.

_Life stops for no one._

The sun will still rise, the birds will still sing. Jinwoo’s cancer will affect no one but himself and his family.

But, it feels like the world has collapsed in on itself. The rest of the world must continue on, even if he does not. His watch is ticking, and it won’t stop. It feels like a time-bomb, counting down until his premature departure.

Jinwoo and his mother were sent home, given time to accept his fate before the teen was to begin treatment the following day. Treatment meant chemotherapy, which meant intoxicating his insides. Though, his insides were already dying – so what was the use in complaining?

When Jinwoo’s father arrives home, they tell him the news, and watch him sink into his chair. The house is still, quiet, dark; sad. Thoughts such as _‘how can we afford this?’_ , _‘where do we go from here?’_ , and _‘what if Jinwoo dies?’_ are swirling through everyone’s minds.

Myungjun calls him that evening. Jinwoo chokes on the truth, the words stuck in his throat; a bad taste.

 _“How did it go, today?”_ He asks, all the innocence of the world held in his voice.

“Alright,” Jinwoo replies. The word feels like a bandage. Protective, but flimsy, and not valuable in the fight against cancer.

 _“Will you come to school, tomorrow?”_ Myungjun asks, curiously.

Tomorrow. Treatment will start tomorrow. He can’t go to school – he’ll be sat in a hospital bed with a catheter stuck into his vein, watching the poison enter his body drip by drip. It was all so sudden; Jinwoo feels winded. He hadn’t had a lot of time to let the shock settle in, after all. He sucks in a breath, “Ah, no,” he responds, trying to come up with an excuse in such short notice. “I, uh, the doctor said to rest.”

Myungjun is quiet a moment. His voice sounds upset, _“Oh, okay. Rest well, then, so you can come back to school.”_ Come back? Jinwoo wonders whether treatments will stop him from going to school – he’ll make sure to ask the nurse tomorrow, when she pokes the needle through his chest. _“Did you get any medicine, or anything?”_

Jinwoo searches for another lie. He’d been prescribed medicines when they thought it was anaemia, but they never got around to collecting them. “Ah, yeah, some antibiotics, and supplements! Hopefully, it’ll speed up the process,” he rambles. He wonders what Myungjun must look like, now. Perhaps snug in his pyjamas, folded over some homework with a pen stuck behind his ear. Or, in the park outside his house, swinging idly on the children’s swing set. He wishes he was there, wherever Myungjun was.

The phone call ends with a goodbye. Jinwoo wonders how many more he’ll have.

\--

_You can’t have a rainbow without a little rain._

The poster that says this is hung up on the back of the door in the hospital room, a stock photo of a rainbow the only colourful thing in this room, besides the flowers on the bedside table of the empty bed opposite his. The girl who slept in that bed left as soon as he arrived, scurrying away with the wheels of her drip cart screeching, a wary eye on the army of doctors that lead Jinwoo around.

It’s quite funny, he reckons, to have such a poster in a place like this. It’s also quite true. In order for a chance at a long life, Jinwoo must suffer through chemotherapy; part of him must die. Chemotherapy, the doctor explained, killed cancerous cells by poisoning them – but, in the process, killed healthy cells. He’ll get sick, and he’ll lose his hair, and he’ll come out of this with battle scars.

Meaning, the Acute Myeloid Leukaemia that swims within him might not be his cause of death. He breathes a sigh of relief, when told this, but the doctor’s gaze is pitiful.

Chemotherapy is inserted into Jinwoo via a central line catheter. Under local anaesthesia, Jinwoo watches through the reflection on the doctor’s glasses as they poke a hole through his skin beneath his collarbone and insert a long tube. It doesn’t hurt, not at all, but he can feel the tube snaking through a thick vein in his chest. He can feel the mechanism slithering closer toward his heart, before turning down toward his belly button.

As it’s inserted, he wonders about Myungjun. What might he be doing, now? In class, lazily taking notes, and drawing cartoons of various animals in the margins of his page, probably. Or, did they have Physical Education class, now? Perhaps he is in his sport kit, skirting the soccer field so he won’t have to actively participate. Is Myungjun worrying about him? Jinwoo hopes not.

The doctors say he’ll feel the side-effects within a few days. He must live out the next week in the hospital, as the treatment continues. They say, after that, it’ll only be check-ups, if his induction-chemo sends him into remission.

When Myungjun texts him, that night, Jinwoo lies again. Too tired, he says. More rest, the doctor allegedly orders. He won’t be at school for the rest of the week, maybe even into the next.

_Are you keeping something from me?_

No, never, Jinwoo says. _I just want to see you happy._

_I’d be happier if you were here._

Jinwoo has never felt closer to a string of words in his life.

\--

He falls ill the next day.

It feels as if the nurses are shovelling antiemetics down his throat as he heaves into the silver basins they provide. They reflect his face as he coughs up, a trail of vomit down his chin, his reflection distorted. His face is pale, and he oddly resembles the moon. This makes Jinwoo laugh – he is the moon, and Myungjun is the sun.

Whatever food he eats or liquid he drinks either erupts out of his mouth or dribbles out of his ass. It’s unattractive, and uncomfortable., and _embarrassing_. When his mother isn’t in the room, he cries, allowing the pain to slink away with the tears.

Myungjun calls him, but as he reaches to answer, he hacks bile into the basin in his arms, and leaves it to his voicemail.

_You can’t have a rainbow without a little rain._

This wasn’t a day shower. This was a storm, a typhoon.

\--

Jinwoo is released after a week. The vomiting and diarrhoea ease up after two days, with the help of medicine. Jinwoo’s body becomes the cabinet his mother kept locked when he was a child in fear of him becoming ill – oh, the irony.

He wishes he could see Myungjun – but one should always be careful what they wish for.

Jinwoo wakes up the morning after he returns from the hospital to the sound of footsteps skipping up the stairs. Jinwoo rolls over, only to discover a patch of blood splayed over his pillow like tie-dye. Quickly scanning his face with his fingers, he discovers drying blood by the corners of his lips. Swallowing thickly, he can taste the metallic element of his blood, and can feel a sharp pain around his gums and lips. Another side effect to be wary of: mouth sores.

The footsteps stop by his door, and, assuming it’s his mother, Jinwoo begins to tell her the problem. “Mum, my mouth-.”

Except, it’s not his mother. The door swings open, and in waltzes Myungjun. Sunshine in his grin, his auburn hair bouncing with his steps. In his arms is a big container, a ladle hanging over the handle. He carries with him joy, and the scent of warm chicken. Soup. He made soup.

At first, Jinwoo is excited to see him again. Joy wells up in his chest and higher up, and up, until it reaches his eyes and prickles at his eyelids with tears unfallen. And, then, sadness overwhelms him. He never wanted Myungjun to know, to see him like this. To see him with pale skin, sunken eyes, skin hanging off his bones, and blood dribbling down his chin.

The smile on his best friend’s face slips away as he spots Jinwoo, all gangly and curled within his thin sheets, thumbing over blood on his pillow case. Jinwoo’s cheeks cave in, lips shrivelled and dry. His brown eyes, usually glowing, are dull and surrounded by dark, mottled skin. The bones beneath his shirt poke against the fabric. This is not his best friend – this is an entirely different person.

And, yet, Myungjun mutters his name, “Jinwoo,” a faint whisper into the air. Just to check. The container of soup falls from his hands and clatters to the ground, splashing the contents across Jinwoo’s bedroom floor. He doesn’t notice until the sound is heard and his socks become soaked – but he makes no move to fix his error.

The sight of Myungjun’s best soup, chunky and sliding across the floorboards reminds Jinwoo of the hours spent with his head hung over an emesis basin in hospital. At least this smells better (and, Jinwoo ponders, probably would have tasted better, too).

“Myungjun, I-,” Jinwoo starts, before he stops, wiping bloody drool from his lips. “You weren’t supposed to see.” He mumbles, running a hand through his hair.

That gorgeous, thick hair. The hair that glowed under the light of the sun, that waved like fields of grass in the breeze. Jinwoo’s hair falls between his fingers in a thick clump, nestled in his palm and fluttering over his bed sheets. They’re both surprised, two gasps echoing in the stiff silence of the room.

Tentatively, Jinwoo reaches up to his head and rakes his fingers over his scalp again. Following his fingers, rough patches of hair fall away into his lap, head of hair crumbling at his fingertips.

Myungjun is the first to cry. Beginning with silent, fat tears that roll over the rounds of his cheeks, Myungjun cries. His lips curve downward, and then a pained, wretched sob shivers out of him. His hands, still hovering in the air from when he dropped the soup fidget a moment, before he steps away.

“Myungjun, please don’t go,” Jinwoo cries, reaching out for the boy. A few stray hairs are stuck to his fingers, and he quickly pulls his hand back to his chest. “I’m sorry I lied to you! I didn’t want you to know,” He sobs, folding his spindly legs beneath his scrawny arms.

Jinwoo is skin and bone.

Sniffling, Myungjun leaves the room, and Jinwoo feels his heart sink.

Myungjun returns, shortly after, a roll of paper towel in his hand and drenched socks missing. As Jinwoo watches, Myungjun carefully and calmly cleans up his mess, sniffling as he goes, throwing the used towels away. Scrambling onto Jinwoo’s bed, he coils under the blankets. Blinking up at his best friend, Myungjun waits for him to join him.

“What happened to you?” He asks; though, he already knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmu @ parkjinchu on twitter and tumblr to cry at me!!  
> i am accepting prompts atm, criticism and feedback too :)


	4. Eye of the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His favourite person in the word, shrivelled to nothing but skin and bone and poison. Jinwoo’s bones poke against the thin shield of his skin, purple and white and scarred. He looks like a ghost, a corpse, something unhuman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hi!! i have my short term holidays coming up very soon so i hope to do more writing then!! :D  
> please enjoy and please give feedback :)

When they were kids, Myungjun and Jinwoo would make pillow forts together. Sheets strung along dining room chairs, hung over the television so they could play videos games without the prying eyes of the rest of the world. Splayed out on pillows with packets of sweets and cookies laden over the carpet, the pair made a new world with every fort.

The last time they made a fort, they were both twelve. Now sixteen, they make a half-assed one by throwing Jinwoo’s sheets over their heads and hiding away from everything else. In this moment, in this space, nothing else exists except for themselves. They lay on their sides, facing each other in the dull light that seeps through the blankets. Myungjun observes Jinwoo.

His favourite person in the word, shrivelled to nothing but skin and bone and poison. Jinwoo’s bones poke against the thin shield of his skin, purple and white and scarred. He looks like a ghost, a corpse, something unhuman.

Yet, here he is, the softest smile gracing his lips as he watches Myungjun.

Myungjun had guessed. Maybe cancer, he’d thought; but there was no way. These things only happen to other people.

Briefly, he flirts with the concept of karma. Had he brought this upon Jinwoo? What terrible wrongdoing had he committed for Jinwoo to suffer this way?

He tentatively reaches a hand out to Jinwoo’s, laying between them on the mattress. His bony fingers bulge out of his palm, like something you’d see in a children’s picture book on witches and wizards. Rubbing his thumb ever so delicately over the skin of his hand, in case it tore beneath his much more capable fingers, Myungjun feels the bones and veins hidden inside Jinwoo.

Park Jinwoo, strong and charming and lovely. Park Jinwoo, reduced to cancer.

“What happened to you?” He had asked, not quite sure he was ready to hear the tale Jinwoo had kept from him. Had he kept it for a reason?

Jinwoo chuckles lamely, voice hoarse. “I came back from hospital yesterday,” he answers, turning his palm over so Myungjun’s fingers nest in his. “Chemotherapy, if you couldn’t tell.” There’s an eyelash on his cheekbone. As Myungjun brushes it away he discovers patches in the line of Jinwoo’s eyelashes. Something painful churns inside him.

“What was it like?”

“It all happened so quickly,” Jinwoo sighs, bringing his other hand up to wipe at his mouth. “The first day I was away was the day I was diagnosed. Acute Myeloid Leukaemia; it’s pretty nasty. In the blood and bone marrow and it comes suddenly and needs to be treated pretty much upon diagnosis. I started chemo the next day, and it carried on into the next week.”

“Are you better now?”

Jinwoo blinks, “I don’t know.”

\--

Some of Jinwoo’s hair on his head doesn’t fall out. He’s left with patchy clumps of the sweet brown hair over the expanse of his scalp. On a stool in front of the bathroom mirror, Myungjun sets him down with a pair of scissors and a razor. The first snip makes Myungjun whimper, the sound of each individual hair clipping enough to bring tears to his eyes. Once the remaining hair is short enough, he drags the razor slowly over Jinwoo’s scalp, until there’s no hair left at all.

Usually hidden within the depths of his hair, the spots and bruises and scars atop Jinwoo’s head are bared for all to see. Myungjun runs his fingers carefully over his bulbous skull, digits making up for what his heart can’t commit too. They both stare in the mirror at the smooth transition from Jinwoo’s nose, to his forehead, and over the arch of his scalp. There are clumps of Jinwoo’s brown hair scattered across the cold bathroom floor, like confetti for the worst party ever.

“People usually cover it,” Jinwoo mumbles, quietly, prodding at a brown bruise above his ear. “A hat or bandana, or something.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His voice is a quiet whisper in the room, said as he stares at his reflection in the mirror.

Myungjun leaves the bathroom quickly, scurrying toward Jinwoo’s room. Digging through Jinwoo’s closet, he finds his old favourite scarf. He remembered assuming he’d lost it. Smiling, he thumbs the fabric and pulls at the lint. A thought strikes him, and Myungjun brings it to his nose. It smells like Jinwoo, now.

“I thought I’d lost this,” he says on his return to the bathroom, swinging it in a circle. Jinwoo is running his hands over his head, feeling the smooth skin beneath his fingers. In the reflection of the mirror, he smiles sheepishly at Myungjun. “Should I use this?” He asks, holding it over Jinwoo’s forehead to test what it might look like. With a stiff nod, Jinwoo agrees.

Myungjun wraps the scarf over his forehead and ties it daintily at the back of his skull. It’s no replacement for the hair he lost, not at all, but he smiles dimly at his reflection. “There’s some colour there, now,” Myungjun comments. Jinwoo assumes he’s talking about his hairless head, but Myungjun is talking about his smile.

\--

Afterwards, Myungjun remakes his soup. Jinwoo waits patiently by the counter, and they chat. Myungjun recounts what he missed at school, the stupid things people said, and how mean their math teacher could be. For a few minutes, they pretend as if Jinwoo’s illness never existed.

They curl up on the couch, Jinwoo folded against Myungjun’s side, the rippled bones of his spine carving into Myungjun’s ribs. Heavy, steaming bowls of soup in their palms, they watch an old favourite film, quoting lines together. It would have felt regular, if not for the itch they couldn’t scratch, the knowledge that Jinwoo was crumbling away. Jinwoo only eats a few spoonful’s before handing the rest over to Myungjun.

“You need to eat,” Myungjun says, peering at Jinwoo’s collarbones through the open billow of his shirt, all sunken and bony and sharp.

His best friend turns his head to face him. “I’m not hungry anymore,” he says, shrugging away from the half-full bowl.

Myungjun pulls on the sleeve of his shirt, “Look at you,” he mumbles, bluntly. “You’re like a _stick figure_.”

Jinwoo chews on his lips, tugging his shirt from Myungjun’s prying fingers. “I _can’t_. If I eat too much, I’ll just throw it all back up.” He replies, pulling his legs into his chest. Like an insect with those spindly, sharp little legs connected awkwardly to the length of their body, Jinwoo becomes smaller. “I’m not hungry,” he repeats.

Myungjun doesn’t say anything, just gently pats at the scarf around his head and pulls him into his chest. “I’m sorry,” he says, a whisper. For everything, his apology is dedicated to, but for a lot, he wasn’t at fault.

_I’m sorry it wasn’t me._

\--

The next few days’ flow smoothly. Jinwoo avoids school, and Myungjun comes over every afternoon to tutor him on the things he’d learnt that day. Jinwoo tires easily, and usually ends up falling asleep on the floor beside him, wooden floor painting bruises on the piano of his ribs.

Myungjun watches him in silence, resting beside him on the expanse of his bedroom floor. Watches his eyelids flutter as he dreams, eyelids without those long, curled eyelashes to decorate them. Watches his chest build up and cave in with his breaths, wondering whether he can feel the cancer taking his life away. Myungjun runs his fingers over the soft skin of Jinwoo’s arm.

Myungjun hopes life won’t develop a habit of trying to take away the things he loves.

Curling closer to Jinwoo, Myungjun allows himself to pretend. Pretend leukaemia isn’t plaguing his best friend, to pretend the person he loves, loves him in return. Myungjun rests his head near the juncture of Jinwoo’s neck and shoulder, torso and legs outlining Jinwoo’s small form. He lifts his hand, resting it on Jinwoo’s beating heart.

His skin is hot, heart pounding against his hand. Myungjun peers up at his face, squashed inward and eyebrows knitted together. Something wasn’t right.

From Myungjun’s understanding, chemotherapy is a cure. He quickly learns that chemotherapy, sometimes, just prolongs a premature death date – in the most painful way possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed!! you can find me on tumblr and twitter under 'parkjinchu' hmu and CRY at me about anything but particularly astro bc i love them a lot


	5. Grey Area

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a silence. “Did… Did the chemo work?” Myungjun asks, peering up at Jinwoo, flat and dull against the hospital bed like a mannequin. Hope is sparkling in Myungjun’s heart, beaming rays that wish for remission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway im here! its been a few days since my last update bc i had some writers block but im back!! yooo anyway i dont think many people are reading this bc its sad but like?? whatever im enjoying myself  
> anyway enjoy suffering in angst it only gets worse from here

Myungjun scrambles to his feet when Jinwoo’s body begins to shudder. His face, wrinkled like a prune under the stress, is sweating and red. Racing down the stairs, Myungjun calls for help. He doesn’t know what’s wrong.

He did as much research as he could in the week following the day Jinwoo’s hair fell out. He knew the exact poisons that were killing the cancer inside of Jinwoo, he knew the side-effects and dangers and risks, he knew the procedures. No article or pamphlet or personal recount told him what might come afterward. Perhaps each experience was unique.

“Mrs. Park?!” He cries, nearly slipping down the stairs. “Mrs. Park?!” Racing into the living room, Jinwoo’s mother naps silently on the couch. Like a doll, still and tucked sweetly under the blankets; peaceful. Myungjun thinks of Jinwoo upstairs, a contrast of his mother, thrashing and sweating on the floor, and shakes her awake.

She seems upset, at first, the smooth lines of her face creasing downwards. Pulling away from his clutching hands, she’s about to ask what’s wrong, when she watches a tear slip down Myungjun’s cheek. “Honey, what’s wrong?” She asks, quietly.

“It’s Jinwoo!” He cries, pulling his quivering hands to his chest. “He’s burning up, and shaking, and I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do, is he okay?” He rambles, words bleeding into each other.

And, within the blink of an eye, Mrs. Park is gone.

\--

The hospital is boring, Myungjun discovers, kicking his feet against the linoleum tiling and staring at a poster about the correct method of washing one’s hands on the opposite wall. The blindingly bright white light above him flickers approximately every seven seconds, and the nurse in the room beside Jinwoo’s exits and returns in four minute intervals.

Myungjun isn’t allowed in Jinwoo’s hospital room, just yet. As they do some tests on him and pump whatever they can into his bloodstream to make him feel better, they restrict entrants to family only. The night is seeping in through the window at the end of the hall, and Myungjun is still sitting in his school uniform, tie pulled loosely around his throat.

After what feels like forever, the door slides open and he’s welcomed inside by a doctor. The doctor begins to drone on about something or other to Jinwoo’s mother, and Myungjun pulls up a seat beside Jinwoo’s bed. There’s a needle stuck in his hand and cannulas in his nose, but he’s smiling lightly.

Myungjun doesn’t know what’s wrong. “What happened to you?” He asks, this time, completely unaware.

“Infection,” Jinwoo replies, nodding his head lightly, lips pursed. “Chemo destroyed whatever fights infection, or something – I can’t remember what the doctor said.”

There’s a silence. “Did… Did the chemo work?” Myungjun asks, peering up at Jinwoo, flat and dull against the hospital bed like a mannequin. Hope is sparkling in Myungjun’s heart, beaming rays that wish for remission.

With a shrug, Jinwoo shuts them off as easily as if they were care headlights. “Dunno. It’s a waiting game, now,” he says. And, like that, the pair are stuck in limbo.

\--

Jinwoo’s arms are soft with the sprouts of fluffy hair. He marvels at it with wide eyes, running his fingers over the peach fuzz decorating his scalp, too, still bulbous and glowing under the hospital lights. His first post-chemo therapy check-up takes place on a Saturday afternoon, so Myungjun is invited to tag along.

“You don’t have to come,” Jinwoo had said, drawing patterns into the velvety hair on his head, soft as suede. Myungjun’s finger dances along Jinwoo’s regrowing hairline, feeling the tiny sprigs of hair follicle grow back. “It’ll probably be really boring,” he mutters, rolling his eyes.

Myungjun is close. He’s so close. He can see the tiny black buds of eyelashes, like an army sorted into a long straight line across the edge of Jinwoo’s eyelid. Myungjun wants to run his fingers over them, and to close those tired eyes. To cease the worry that folds creases between his best friend’s brows.

And, yet, Jinwoo smiles. He has this cheeky grin sewn up on his lips almost constantly. He fools everyone he meets into believing he was okay. Myungjun isn’t a fool; Myungjun knows him best.

“I want to,” he replies, examining the winding blue vein down Jinwoo’s arms, like thread sewn under the skin or a river within him, pumped with poisons. He runs the pad of his thumb over it, for just a moment, wondering if any other medicines will push through this one entrance. “I think… I think it’ll be interesting,” he says.

What he wants to say is ‘ _won’t it be wonderful to hear you’re in remission?’_ and _‘you can live normally again’_. What holds him back, keeps the words locked up in his throat, is the chance the chemotherapy didn’t work.

After dozens of needle pricks and stitches and holes and procedures over the length of his body, Jinwoo isn’t even phased by getting a blood test. He rolls up his sleeve and watches the vile fill with his blood, dark and the colour of raspberry jam that could only be bought at the Farmer’s Markets they’d attend as kids together. The doctor gives him a cookie, and, nonchalant, he cracks off a piece and hands it to Myungjun. Then, they wait.

Jinwoo hobbles into the doctor’s room, and though he doesn’t need it, Myungjun helps him into his chair. His best friend smiles meekly at him, sitting between his mother and best friend. Myungjun can’t help but feel like a nuisance, a useless fixture, lax in the chair beside the kid with no hair.

The doctor arrives shortly after, settling in her chair with a folder of papers in her arms and sympathy in her eyes. She explains, a long introduction, that each chemotherapy treatment is different and the induction treatment is mostly a test to see if one’s body can handle it or needs a change in plan. The way she speaks forebodes her final answer.

Jinwoo still has Acute Myeloid Leukaemia.

The chemotherapy didn’t work. He needs more doses, heavier and with a different concoction of poisons.

Jinwoo’s mother starts to cry, her small body coiling in and her wet face pink and squashed like a crumpled petal. Jinwoo is frozen, clutched onto the rail of his chair. It seems the doctor has seen this many times before, seen every reaction to the news that the chemotherapy wasn’t working there could possibly be. Myungjun doesn’t know what to say.

He watches Jinwoo closely. He imagines the old Jinwoo, muscular and tan and _healthy_ , and wonders just how they got here. Placing his warm palm over Jinwoo’s cold, white-knuckled hand, he watches some of the visible stress ooze out of the boy. Jinwoo doesn’t turn to look at him, but he flips his hand over. Their palms meet, all the lines that sketch out to predict their future pressed against each other.

Briefly, guiltily, Myungjun notes: this is the first time they’ve held hands. Jinwoo’s fingers thread between his and they feel like a perfect fit. Perhaps, they were meant to be held together.

Then, he wonders how long the life line beneath Jinwoo’s thumb is.

\--

Jinwoo is admitted back into the cancer ward, a hallway with doors that open upon dozens of beds filled with other children and adolescents in similar, upsetting conditions. Myungjun is subject to watching everything, the insertion of the central line catheter and the dark poison enter Jinwoo’s veins. Watches him shrivel away into the hospital sheets, hospital gown billowing over his tiny body. Watches the tiny sprigs of his hair fall out of his head and outline his body like a halo glistening under the hospital lights.

Myungjun holds the emesis basin beneath Jinwoo’s chin, cleaning it out whenever there’s a break in his vomiting episodes. Jinwoo is utterly embarrassed, can’t look at Myungjun in the eye, which breaks his heart. He pets at Jinwoo’s head, down over his shoulders, “It’s okay, JinJin,” he mumbles, wiping a cloth at the boy’s slick mouth.

Jinwoo simply shakes his head, and shifts his gaze away, until the bile curls up his throat again and he snatches at the basin.

After his infection, the doctor declares he stay in the hospital when round two of chemotherapy is complete – away from the germs of the outside world, away from school, away from everything that could have classified him as a normal boy. Put out, Jinwoo sulks in his hospital bed, cafeteria mush on his tray and IV drip plugged into his hand.

“I hate this,” he whines, playing with what appears to be chunky powdered mashed potato with the end of his spoon.

Myungjun takes his spoon, collecting a mouthful and eating it. “It’s not terrible,” he hums, licking his lips.

“I meant everything.” The feeling in the room changes, pulled taut, stiff.

“I know,” Myungjun says, resting his hand on Jinwoo’s forearm, trying to cheer him up. He felt useless – after all, who can cheer up a kid who looks like death is teasing him? “Eat up, though,” he mumbles, running his thumb over the bone that pokes of out Jinwoo’s wrist. The brunet whines, pushing the plate further away from him. “Stop acting like a baby, or I’ll feed you like one.”

Jinwoo pauses, eyes glinting with the appearance of a challenge. He throws his legs about under the hospital blanket, wobbling the drip stand and almost knocking the plate of food onto his crisp hospital sheets. There’s a smile on his face, one of humour and enjoyment that Myungjun hadn’t seen in so long. Hadn’t seen since Jinwoo was healthy.

He wants to play along, to tackle Jinwoo back down, hold him by his chest and force the disgusting food into his mouth. He wants to continue the laughter, to drag it out for as long as he can, to cherish it.

Taking the spoon, he collects a heaped pile of mashed potato, mushy peas, and God-knows what else is on the plate, mouth blubbering and imitating plane noises. Jinwoo shrieks with laughter, weakly attempting to push Myungjun away, mouth pursed shut tightly.

It’s his weak arms pushing against Myungjun’s chest that stops him in his tracks, spoon hovering in the air. He’s reminded of how fragile Jinwoo had become, like tissue paper to the touch; he sits back, nudging the spoon near Jinwoo’s fallen lips. Jinwoo huffs, no longer laughing, breathless even from the minimal exertion.

“Sorry,” Myungjun mumbles, as Jinwoo accepts the spoonful.

“Just forget about it.” He mutters, grimacing around the mush in his mouth.

 _Forget about what?_ Myungjun thinks. _The terrible food? The fact that you’re so fragile I’m afraid to touch you? This game we’re playing, objective being who can avoid the words ‘cancer’ and ‘death’ the longest? Forget about the fact that every night I fall asleep wondering if I’ll get to see you again in the morning?_

“Jinwoo,” he mutters, shoulders sinking. “I can’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eyyoo you know where to find me ;) come cry @ me pls i love making friends and sobbing over astro and this fic thank u


	6. Making Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Myungjun is alarmed at the size of the kid. He’s short and lanky, bones poking through his thin hospital pyjamas. By height, he doesn’t look much past six or seven. He happily sits in the wheelchair, still, but chatting loudly, as the nurse grabs his information book attached to the end of his bed and writes a note inside._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha ok this was a fast update but i couldnt help myself

The seven hours Myungjun spends at school are the worst hours of everyday. Away from Jinwoo, constantly worried about how he’s doing. Terrified he’ll have a downfall, a major accident, a relapse. Students long ago began questioning Jinwoo’s absence, but personally instructed by the boy himself, Myungjun tells them he’s on holiday, a lie that leaves his mouth in the form of a wish.

Then again, legend had it that if you say them aloud, your wishes won’t come true.

He eats lunch, alone. Studies in the classroom, alone. Skirts the soccer field in Physical Education class, alone.

Someone stops before his desk one morning, as he’s unpacking his bags. His uniform is a little wrinkled, having slept the night on a hospital chair, too scared to go home after Jinwoo hadn’t woken up at all that afternoon (he had awoken that morning, urging Myungjun to go to school). He looks up, eyes following thin legs, over a short skirt and a rectangular body, and into the brown and glowing eyes of a girl in their class.

Her name is Yoojung, a petite girl with an imploring gaze and a strawberry-sweet smile. Hands clasped behind her back, she smiles softly, “Hello, Myungjun.”

“Hello.”

“Jinwoo has been on holiday for a really long time,” she says, rocking on her toes. “Do you know when he will be coming back?”

 _I don’t think he will_ , his brain goes to say, first. His heart pangs, stops him; he doesn’t even want to believe that is a possibility. “I’m not sure.”

She hums, pursing her plump lips together. From behind her back, she retrieves a little pink envelope, and holds it out to him. “Well, when he does, could you give this too him?” Myungjun holds it in his grasp, examining it. Made of pink card, stamped with heart stickers and sealed with a lipstick-kiss; it’s a love letter. “I’ve always been too nervous to give it to him in person, and I figured you might be able to give it to him for me?”

Myungjun’s heart dives into the pit of his stomach. “Uh, sure,” he says. “I’m sure he’ll be glad to know,” he says, out of courtesy, yet hoping for the opposite.

She giggles, waves goodbye, and steps over to her desk on the other side of the room. Myungjun tucks the letter into his backpack and tries his hardest to ignore it for the rest of the day.

\--

Myungjun is a guest at the hospital every single day. He learns the nurses by name, as they learn his. After school, he arrives in his school uniform, backpack slung over his shoulder and homework splayed out on Jinwoo’s bedside table. During the long hours of the weekend, he resides in one of the chairs beside Jinwoo’s bed, chatting. He’d been told numerous times to go out, get some fresh air and sunshine, to live the way Jinwoo no longer could.

He can’t help it, though. His heart is a compass, and Jinwoo is the North.

North spends a lot of his time asleep, neck craned awkwardly until Myungjun repositions his bed to a horizontal position. During this time, when Jinwoo softly snores, Myungjun either sleeps, does his homework, or bathes in the bathrooms. In the short hours he is not asleep, he watches television with Myungjun, plays video games, eats, and chats.

“Hey,” Jinwoo says one day, having just woken up. Myungjun is in his school uniform, scanning the pages of a history textbook, when Jinwoo steals his attention.

“Oh, hey, you’re awake,” he observes, sliding his pencil into the spine of the book and putting it down. He’d been falling behind a little in his subjects lately, devoting the majority of his time to Jinwoo in hospital – but he couldn’t care at all.

“Yep! How was school?” Jinwoo asks.

“Shit.” The boy laughs at this, the feathery hair on his head dancing. “Oh, that reminds me,” Myungjun murmurs, reaching into his backpack, and pulling out the pink love letter. He’d debated, on the bus ride here, whether or not he should give Jinwoo Yoojung’s letter. He decided to do it anyway, reasoning with guilt that Jinwoo may never receive another one. After all, Myungjun thinks those cards are cheesy; he’d never make one.

Jinwoo’s eyes sparkle for a moment as he’s handed the pink envelope, smiling. “What’s this?” He asks, a song to his voice like wind chimes, soulful yet hollow.

“It’s from a girl in our class,” Myungjun answers, shrugging. Jinwoo’s grin falters, as he turns the card over in his hands. “Yoojung.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know, really.”

“Oh.” Jinwoo opens up the letter, tearing at the top of the envelope slightly. He glances over the text, smiling slightly at the end, before folding it back up and placing it on his bedside table. There, it’s forgotten about. “Did you know there’s access to the rooftop?”

Myungjun cocks his head to the side, “I haven’t seen any.”

Jinwoo grins, “Not on this floor, though.” He plays with one of the wires crossing over his body. “I found it the other day, when you were at school. You have to go on quite the adventure to get there, but it’s pretty cool. It’s got, like, a garden, and an eating space. You can see heaps from there. The fresh air is lovely.” There’s a wistfulness to his voice, as if he’s dreaming of it, now.

Myungjun wonders what else Jinwoo does when he’s stuck at school, and when the boy is awake. Who does he talk too? What medicines does he take? Does he watch television, talk to the other kids, play video games? _Does he miss me?_

“Sounds cool,” he replies, soft smile on his lips. “Are you allowed to be up there, though?”

The boy smirks, mischief sparkling in his gaze. “Not really – but there was a nurse by the door wheeling out another kid in his wheelchair and she gave me a pair of gloves and a face mask.” He leans over towards his bedside drawer, but can’t quite reach, so Myungjun opens it instead. He pulls out basic hospital fabric masks and rubber gloves, in that iconic teal-blue colour that surgeons have on hospital soaps. “As long as I have these I should be okay, she said.”

“ _Should_ ,” the other boy emphasises, quirking a brow. Jinwoo chews on his bottom lip, a little white line stretching beneath his teeth. Myungjun doesn’t push it; this rooftop garden appears to be Jinwoo’s refuge, a place where he can escape these four white walls, this room packed with other kids shrivelling away. “Stop chewing on your lip, you’ll make it bleed,” Myungjun mumbles, placing the gloves and mask on Jinwoo’s lap.

The boy releases his lip, but despite Myungjun’s warning, there’s already a thin crack in the pink, plush skin. Jinwoo licks over it a few times, grimacing at the metallic taste in his mouth. “Oh, shit,” he whines, placing his fingers to the tiny cut that won’t stop bleeding, and when Myungjun asks if he should get someone, he shrugs. “It’s a cut, Myungjun, they have a lot of other stuff to deal with.” With that, he gestures around the room.

Myungjun peers over his back, scanning the room. There’s a few boys and girls sleeping in their beds, one playing with the controls of his bed, folding up and down. He laughs, chubby cheeks pink, but stops as a nurse rolls in with a wheelchair, halting by his bed across from Jinwoo’s. “Look,” Jinwoo says, though Myungjun already is. “That’s the nurse that let me up onto the rooftop. She’s getting that kid again.”

Carefully, she rearranges the little boy’s wires and tubes, hooking his oxygen tank onto the back of his wheelchair. As she folds back the sheets and lifts him out, Myungjun is alarmed at the size of the kid. He’s short and lanky, bones poking through his thin hospital pyjamas. By height, he doesn’t look much past six or seven. He happily sits in the wheelchair, still, but chatting loudly, as the nurse grabs his information book attached to the end of his bed and writes a note inside.

Jinwoo speaks over Myungjun’s shoulder, to the nurse, “Are you guys going to the rooftop again?”

The kid peers up, grinning widely. There’s a shine in his eyes that you wouldn’t expect in a kid with cancer, black hair only just growing back. Myungjun notices, now that he looks directly at them, that his smile is lopsided, a scar directly across his left cheek making a dent in his beaming grin. “We are!” He says, as the nurse slides on his hospital gloves, snapping them into place. “It’s my favourite place.”

The nurse smiles stiffly, at that. “Would you like to come?” She asks. Jinwoo looks over at Myungjun, asking for permission. Myungjun could never say no – not before he fell ill, and especially not now. Jinwoo nods, and she asks the boy, “Is that okay, Sanha?”

\--

Jinwoo was right; it was quite the trek to the rooftop. There was no exit for it on their floor, so together, they walked down the hall to the elevator and patiently waited their turn. Taking the elevator up two floors, they come across the maternity ward. It felt odd, Myungjun thinks, to walk through here where babies are born, young and healthy and innocent. These mothers hold their new babies in their arms, watch as these sick kids hobble down the hall, and pray it doesn’t happen to their kids, too.

This kid, Sanha, chats casually with them as they duck through different hallways, coming to an elevator that leads directly to the rooftop. Says he’s twelve, likes _Pokémon_ , and wishes he could play the guitar, because his favourite idol does. As the elevator dings, signalling their arrival, the nurse quickly checks that the two boys have everything they need. Jinwoo’s tugging his IV with him, the wheels rattling as they roll through the hospital. They’ve both got their gloves and masks on, and with that, they step out onto the rooftop.

It’s a large space. Looks as if it was never intended to be a place to relax – fake grass mats on the ground, and a line of expensive looking fake trees and flowers set up like a garden, skirted by a tall, grated fence. There’s a few shade-sail shelters with tables and chairs, but that’s about it. There’s a few women dotted around, playing with their brand-new babies. There are families eating the terrible cafeteria food, chatting amongst themselves, at least one of them always the odd one out – trademark hospital gown on.

In the corner, the space extends a little, creating a little balcony. It’s shaded nicely by a sail, with a park bench overlooking the city. This is where they’re headed. Myungjun feels a little ill, as he makes his way over, noticing the plaque dedicating the rooftop space to some poor dead kid, by the entrance. He looks at Jinwoo, at Sanha – the nurse catches his eye, and smiles softly, sympathetic. She’s seen it all before.

They chat quietly, watching cars duck in between buildings and birds soar in the bright blue sky. The breeze moves past them, gentle, and Myungjun imagines if they weren’t in a hospital, stuck with another ill kid and his nurse, this could be just like it used too, for he and Jinwoo.

But, they’re not. The past feels so distant, though normality was only a few weeks ago.

“It feels nice to be here with new people,” the little boy says, suddenly. He is still staring out into the skyline. “Usually it’s just me and Boyeon,” he says, referring to the nurse. “You’re my new friends, right?”

“Yeah,” Jinwoo smiles, mask stretching, one hand on Sanha’s wheelchair. “We’re friends.” Myungjun smiles gently.

There’s a comfortable silence that settles over the four of them, until the nurse’s pager begins to beep. She groans, “I’ve got to go – something’s happened downstairs. Are you two good to take care of Sanha for a little while?” She asks, talking to the two teens.

“Of course,” Myungjun offers, and she immediately scurries away.

“I like _Pokémon_ ,’ Sanha says, just as he had on the way to the rooftop. “ _Pikachu_ is cool, but not as cool as _Mewtwo_. They can do things with their mind, but everyone overlooks them, because _Pikachu_ is more popular.”

Jinwoo chuckles softly, “We know, you told us already. Well, I like _Clefairy_ ; she looks like Myungjun.”

“Hey!” Myungjun laughs.

“Did I really tell you already?” Sanha asks, cocking his head slightly. “That’s funny – sorry. I don’t remember that.” The teens share a quick glance, until the kid speaks again. “I’m glad you two are here. I love Boyeon, but she doesn’t like it when I talk about my illness. I don’t have anyone to talk too, Boyeon is my only friend.”

Myungjun’s heart thumps in his throat, air caught in his lungs. He doesn’t know what to say, brain emptied, replaced with alarm bells. What was he supposed to say – sorry? He was the only healthy one, here; it felt nasty.

Somehow, Jinwoo knows what to say. “She’s not your only friend, we’re here too! Besides, I don’t know why anyone wouldn’t want to be your friend, you’re cool.”

Sanha hums lightly. “I’m glad, thank you.” His oxygen tank rattles as he takes a deep breath, cannula tubes dipping under the blue fabric of his mask. “I didn’t ever get to go to school, I’ve been sick since I was a baby.”

Jinwoo makes a small noise of understanding, “You haven’t made friends at the hospital?”

“No, I’m always moving hospitals, trying different treatments and surgeries. I’m never in one hospital for too long – but I think I’m staying here, now.” Sanha glances up at the sky. “We can’t afford any more treatments, it’s been too long, it’s a bit of a pain.”

Myungjun tips his head back. Should he be here? This didn’t feel like a conversation he’s allowed to be a part of, he hadn’t earned the rights. He wasn’t sick enough. Additionally, this kid was awfully blunt, it made him a little uncomfortable.

“So, what will you do?” Jinwoo asks, quietly. He realises, just a second too late, that there _was_ nothing they could do.

Sanha shrugs, the smallest movement. “Die, I guess.”

Myungjun stills. A heavy blanket falls over them, a depressingly tranquil silence. Sanha was an odd little thing – scars and dents in his skull, only just hidden by fuzzy hair. Tiny, quivering movements, paralysed from the waist down. He fumbled over words and his moods swung high to low within seconds. He is a bundle of hope and inspiration, but he carries the heavy weight of reality. They’ll all die, someday, but he’ll die sooner, sadder, sicker.

“Look,” Jinwoo says, in the bitter silence. “You can see our school from here.”

‘That’s _my_ school,’ Myungjun thinks, but he doesn’t say it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im really sorry. and im sorry for the next chapter, just in advance :)  
> you know where to find me! parkjinchu on twitter and tumblr... hmu bc i know it doesnt seem like it bc of this fic but i love love love astro and could cry about them at the drop of a hat, so lets go :)


	7. Deteriorate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was peaceful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey im back sorry i took a hiatus bc writing this was taking a toll on my but im fine now im back and ready to break hearts haha i probably shouldnt have been so childish but oh well :// i was

Sanha had become a dear friend of Jinwoo’s, and by default, Myungjun’s. They’d chat across the room, Sanha a little stick tucked under his bed sheets, straight and bony. When Boyeon the nurse would arrive, and take Sanha away to the rooftop, Myungjun would help Jinwoo out of his bed and stabilise him on the walk up. Despite the age gap, they’d get along magnificently.

Age was only a number, to this group of friends, especially when two of them were dying.

“ _Pikachu_ is cool, but not as cool as… _Mowtoe? Mewcho?_ Oh, _Mewtwo_.” Sanha says again one day, as the nurse puts the breaks on his wheelchair. He smiles softly, the action creasing his face mask. There’s a _Shiny Mewtwo_ card in his hand, one of Myungjun’s old _Pokémon_ playing cards he’d found. When Myungjun had given it to the little boy, he’d almost cried, twigs of his arms shakily reaching up to hug him, too weak to wrap all the way around him and squeeze.

“ _Clefairy_ is my favourite,” Jinwoo would say, every single time, and he’d look at Myungjun with a cheeky grin. Myungjun would laugh, at first, but now he looks at Sanha, who crumbles away with each passing day, and feels guilt scratch at the back of his mind. Was he allowed to feel happy?

Other than the _Pokémon_ game, Sanha liked to discuss many other things. He loved cartoons, and birds, and idols. He has said, many times, that he’d love to be an idol. Always with ‘one day’, tacked onto the end, as if a miracle would fall into his open and begging palms.

Sat on that little bench on the rooftop, Sanha’s wheelchair perched in front, the three of them would sit and chat. Boyeon used to join them, but there was a light missing in her eyes, a sense of what was to come; she began to sit a little further away and keep a close eye on them, eating her lunch.

The day Sanha has a seizure in front of them, Jinwoo cries.

The little boy had begun convulsing in his wheelchair, wheels rattling and cannulas falling from his nose as his thin arms shuddered. They hadn’t made it to the rooftop yet, in the elevator as Sanha had mumbled something about not feeling very well that day, when his head tipped back and the whites of his eyes showed.

The nurse is a charm of efficiency, quickly lifting him out of his wheelchair and carefully laying him on his side on the floor. She tells the boys to guard the elevator door, in case anyone tried to enter, voice calm and level. Jinwoo is curled into the corner, fingers in his short and fuzzy hair, face red. Myungjun stumbles over Sanha’s shuddering form and stands before the elevator doors, watching carefully.

Sanha makes garbled noises, little bony body flickering around on the floor. There was a strange sense of guilt in Myungjun’s chest, heavy as he watched on, taking note of everything Boyeon did – in case it happened to Jinwoo someday.

After about two minutes, Sanha’s seizure faded. He was passed out for a moment, until the nurse carefully helped him back into his chair and he came to, smiling. “Are we going to the rooftop?” He asked, as if nothing had happened. As if he’d completely forgotten.

Jinwoo whimpered softly, wiping his hands over his wet face. Myungjun carefully steps over, holding Jinwoo’s hand in his. It’s a little rough, scarred, pale, cold; but he holds it anyway, relishing in _Jinwoo_ and his touch.

“Yeah, are you excited?” Boyeon replied, a joyful tone to her voice. She wheels him out of the elevator doors, holding up the façade that nothing had happened.

Myungjun smiled at Jinwoo, gripping his hand a little tighter. “Come on,” he said, wiping his free thumb over Jinwoo’s tacky cheeks. “Let’s go.”

“He… He just…”

“I know,” Myungjun mumbled, following them down the hall of the maternity ward. “I saw.” Myungjun helps him put on his gloves and face mask in the next elevator, stroking back the frizzy ends of his hair. His lips ache to kiss his cheek, kiss away the tear streaks; but he can’t.

On the rooftop, Boyeon eats her lunch at one of the far tables, watching them as Myungjun pulls Sanha’s wheelchair to a stop, puts the breaks on, adjusts his oxygen tank. Sanha gratefully says thank you, hand shakily reaching out for Myungjun’s. Myungjun rests his palm up on the arm of Sanha’s wheelchair, feeling his small little gloved hand curl up like a cool stone in his grip.

They chat quietly amongst themselves. “I feel a little sick today,” Sanha says, eyes fluttering shut and opening again. “I think I might have a seizure.” He says it so nonchalantly, so easily; Myungjun watches Jinwoo’s fist curl.

“You already did,” Jinwoo replies, bluntly. He’s staring out into the skyline, hand gripped onto his IV stand, face stern.

Sanha chuckles, “Did I? Oh, I don’t remember! Maybe that’s why I’m so sleepy.”

He reaches out, other hand finding Jinwoo’s. Jinwoo gasps as the boy’s little hand falls in his. Their blue rubber gloves squeak as they adjust their grip on each other. They are a chain, connected by their hands, and by their hearts. Sanha falls asleep in the silence, hands buried in theirs, and doesn’t wake up until dinner that night.

\--

The boy is asleep more often than he is awake. When he is conscious, however, his beaming smile lights up the room. Myungjun brings in the rest of his old _Pokémon_ card collection, a big shoebox with cards almost overflowing. Sanha is delighted, examining each card and playing rounds with the two older boys.

One day, as Sanha drifts off to sleep before their eyes, in the middle of a game, Myungjun carefully helps Jinwoo back into his bed. There’s a bruise on his shoulder, peeking through the dip of his hospital gown – it’s purple and brown, and just a bruise, but a tremor of fear shakes in his heart. “Have you had a blood test lately?” He asks, softly.

Jinwoo shrugs, pulling the blankets up to his waist. “I usually have a check-up, every two weeks,” he replies. “I had one last week, but they’re going to do another one tomorrow, a week early, because there was irregular statistics in the last test.”

The other boy swallows, “Irregular statistics?”

Again, he shrugs, “I don’t know. They tell my mum everything, not me. I don’t even understand, anyway. I’ve been having headaches lately, too.” There’s a long silence held between them, a static electricity, when realisation settles that things could get worse again. Jinwoo smiles wryly, and whispers, “Just when I thought I might be better…”

\--

Round Three of chemotherapy starts two days later. Another trial, another poisonous concoction. Only three hours after it begins, when Jinwoo is heaving into a basin, vomit dribbling down his chin. Myungjun and his mother sit bedside, Myungjun always regretfully leaving for school. Jinwoo experiments with very sweet foods, joking that it’ll taste better on the way back up. It doesn’t, he claims.

Sanha watches everything from his side of the room, round eyes fluttering open and shut every now and then, crayon in his gloved hand as he scribbles on paper. “I’ve been there,” he jokes, a cheeky little smile on his face, as more vomit blubbers out of Jinwoo’s mouth. He turns up the television.

It feels like they’re back to the old routine; vomit, wash-up, sleep, worry, cry; repeat. Jinwoo loses so much weight it looks like he’s shrunk a few inches, looks about the size he was when he was thirteen, thin and awkward, only frailer. His hair falls out again, those fuzzy, split ends, dancing on his pillow slip. He sleeps the days away, letting all the drips and machines he’s plugged into nurse him.

Late one night, Jinwoo’s mother has already fallen asleep, taking all the chairs lined up alongside the patient’s bed. Myungjun sits beside Jinwoo as they compete for who can stay awake the longest – but it felt more about seeing each other for as long as they can, rather than a game. They’re exhausted, especially Jinwoo, eyes puffy and fluttering open and closed. The rest of the hospital is still, for once, it seems.

There’s a long silence as they absorb each other’s presence. They can hear the soft beeping of machines in the room, the gentle rush of traffic outside. A thought is born like a seed in Myungjun’s mind: urged, blooming. Instead of thinking, filtering, he asks softly, “Does it hurt?”

Jinwoo turns to him, whispering in reply, “Does what hurt?”

The other boy shrugs. “I don’t know. Everything?”

Jinwoo smiles softly, deprecating. “Yeah.” The hand with the catheter stuck in it opens beside Myungjun. “Does it hurt for you?” He asks, voice gentle, quivering in the night.

Myungjun’s stronger hands fall in his, clutching onto it, trying to avoid the tape and needle on the back of Jinwoo’s hand. Instantly, he’s sobbing. He’s held back, for the most part. In the small moments he’s at home, the nights his mother forces him to stay back, he cries into his pillow. When class becomes too much without Jinwoo in the desk beside his, he cries in the bathroom. Whenever he’s with Jinwoo, though, he holds it in. It’s not fair if he gets to cry, when Jinwoo doesn’t.

“Yeah, it does,” he trembles, bringing his hand up to his face, sloppily wiping away his tears. Jinwoo’s free hand pushes through Myungjun’s soft head of hair, rubbing softly. “It really fucking hurts.”

Jinwoo’s voice is watery, “It’s not fair, is it?” He asks, sniffling. When Myungjun peers up at him, blinking away the blur of his tears, Jinwoo is smiling, still. There’s so much pain behind that smile, that mask. Myungjun’s not sure either of them have the strength to crack past it. He shakes his head. _No, it’s not fair. Why us?_

They cry softly together, trying not to wake anyone else up in the room. Jinwoo shushes him gently, cupping his wet face in his hand, running his bony fingers over the length of Myungjun’s face.

“We should sleep,” Myungjun says after a while, sniffling loudly and dabbing the collar of his t-shirt over his eyes. Jinwoo doesn’t release his hand as he leans further back in his little plastic chair.

“My mum took all the space,” Jinwoo observes, patting the mattress, “Come in here.” His eyes are honest, pleading. Asking, not only for Myungjun’s sake, but for his own, too. Without argument, Myungjun clambers over the bed frame, and they rearrange all his wires so he can sleep under them.

Curled into each other, under the dim hospital lights, they are Yin and Yang. Not complete without the other, a perfect balance, two halves of one whole. Myungjun lets the wires snake over him, tangle them together. The rhythm of Jinwoo’s light breaths aide him into slumber, the feeling of his warm, thin chest against his own.

For a fleeting moment, before they fall asleep, the world seems perfect and right again.

\--

They wake in each other’s arms, one of Jinwoo’s cords wrapped around Myungjun’s arm. “Oh, shit,” he mumbles, trying to unravel himself from the tangle they slept in. The movement wakes Jinwoo, who groans lowly. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Myungjun whispers, smiling softly. He successfully unravels the cord, realising it was just Jinwoo’s phone charger, plugged into the wall behind him.

Jinwoo smiles back, blinking sleep from his eyes. The pale blue light of dawn washes in through the window, dancing on his light skin. “Morning,” he mumbles, “Did you sleep well?”

Myungjun peers back down at him, grinning, “Hospital beds aren’t all that comfortable, but it’s better than the chairs, I’ll tell you that much.”

“I’ll let you sleep in my bed until you get in trouble, then,” Jinwoo declares, patting the sheets down.

The other boy laughs, “You don’t have to do that!”

“Well, you stay here almost every night, it’s the least I could do,” he offers, smile soft on his chapped lips.

The rest of the hospital room is still. Not another soul is awake, besides the two of them. They sit quietly, enjoy the peace together, until Jinwoo shifts, fidgeting. “Sanha’s not in his bed,” he states, plainly, simply.

“Maybe he’s on the rooftop?” Myungjun suggests, peering over at his empty bed, where the sheets are crisply smoothed over.

Jinwoo shakes his head, “It’s… It’s a little early, don’t you think?”

He softly clutches Myungjun’s hand. Sanha’s wheelchair is perched by his bedside, empty. The shoebox of old _Pokémon_ cards sits on his bedside table, along with the few pictures and books he owned. The information booklet and name tag, usually attached to the end of his bed has disappeared. The amenities, machines, and drips have all been cleared.

Neither of them say anything, just hold onto each other tightly, staring at the spot a once thriving life had deteriorated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um anyway you know where to find my twitter and tumblr and stuff... idek if people still want to see this in their feed but like??? let me know idk


	8. Power Imbalance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why, why, why?” He’d repeated. “Why wasn’t it me?”  
> Every time, Myungjun had shushed him, told him not to think about it – but now, Jinwoo is putting himself at risk, and Myungjun can’t bear to see him like this anymore. Can’t bear to see the bleeding scrapes on his hands and knees, to see those tell-tale bruises forming over his feet and arms. “Why should it be you, then? Why, Jinwoo?” Myungjun asks, sitting the boy up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um i dont reeallly like this chapter so once you read it ill probably upload the enxt chapter almost immediately lol sorry

Jinwoo doesn’t eat breakfast, and Myungjun can’t help him. The food sits before them on Jinwoo’s bed table, the sweet stench of pancakes enough to make either of them sick. It was a pity breakfast; a nice breakfast they gave to the children of this room after Sanha’s passing, as some sort of sick treat that might make up for it. Jinwoo had tried, picking at it with his fork, but couldn’t bring the cake to his lips. Myungjun had pushed the table away, carefully tugging Jinwoo further into his embrace.

The boy cries until he falls asleep from exhaustion, before he wakes up again, peers down at the empty bed across from them, and bursts into tears once more. Myungjun can’t bear to see it, to feel Jinwoo’s hiccupping body shudder against his chest, in his tight grip. It makes his chest ache.

The calmer moments are reflective, peaceful – until Jinwoo whispers, sullenly, “That could’ve been me.” He weakly hits Myungjun’s chest, beating out his anger in the hardest bursts he can manage against the boy’s ribcage. “That _should_ have been me,” he whimpers, nuzzling himself further into Myungjun’s damp t-shirt.

“Don’t say that,” Myungjun replies, running his hand over Jinwoo’s bald head, holding him up against his heartbeat. “Don’t you dare say that.” Jinwoo curls into him, sobs some more, clutching onto the thin fabric of his t-shirt. “Please, don’t.”

Later that first day, Boyeon comes by, and begins to collect the remainder of Sanha’s things, sharing a tiny sympathetic smile toward the two boys, who are still curled up at the top of Jinwoo’s bed. She looks tired, cheeks and eyes puffy, hair a mess. Carefully, she takes each photo, book, drawing, he’d had, and gathers them in a small backpack. Myungjun’s old box of _Pokémon_ cards sits on top, fitting it inside.

The two watch on, listen to the buzz of the zip close, as if giving the final closing of Sanha’s life, the final goodbye. All that he was – where he himself wasn’t – was in that bag.

Boyeon stops by the end of their bed. “How are you?” She asks, softly. What was she supposed to say? The air in the room was heavy, grey, thick. Myungjun felt as if he could suffocate.

Neither of them say anything.

“Would you like to keep any of his things? I know you were all good friends,” she asks, pushing the bag towards them. “His parents won’t mind,” she whispers, excusing any guilt in their minds.

Jinwoo peers up at Myungjun through his eyelashes that cling together with his tears, a silent question in his gaze, an intense curiosity, a begging. It’s in this moment, this silent moment as Myungjun understands him, that he realises how close they were. A speechless conversation, recognition in a simple stare.

He sits up, drags the backpack in between them, and they sort through the few objects inside. Myungjun pulls out the shoebox overflowing with _Pokémon_ cards, and they point out the ones that were Sanha’s favourites. They keep the box of playing cards, leaving the _Shiny Mewtwo_ in the bag. He would never hold it again – his little bony and scarred fingers will never play that card again – but they agreed that keeping it would make them feel guilty.

There’s a few photos, some framed and others not. A few of Sanha and his parents, all sunken, tired eyes and dull smiles. Some of Sanha in, perhaps, the brief periods he wasn’t hospitalised – that gorgeous vibrant smile that once sparkled on his lips, no cords plugged into his tiny body, the sun beaming down on his skin. A few of him in his hospital bed, pictures with various celebrities who took the time to see him, a perk that terminally ill kids received, some sort of pity gift.

A photo, tucked into a thick white frame – Jinwoo pulls it out and immediately flings it into Myungjun’s side, curling up into his chest. Myungjun lifts it up; it’s a photo of the three of them, up on the rooftop. Sanha’s large wheelchair that seemed to swallow him up was in the centre of the photo, his bright grin drawing all the attention. Jinwoo sits beside him, patchy hair on his scalp, a peace sign on his fingers.

The three of them could keep this moment forever. It felt like the hundreds of memories they made in the short time they knew him were held in this one snapshot. Sanha, that odd little character – he would live on in their hearts, in this single photograph they had with him.

Myungjun runs his thumb over Sanha’s thin cheeks that stretch around his smile, can almost hear the high-pitched ring of his laugh, like the bell on Jinwoo’s childhood bicycle.

There are a few trinkets, little keychains of cute animals, a tiny bracelet that had probably fit Sanha’s wrist his whole life. A guitar-pick for a guitar he never got to play. There’s a thick folio tucked behind everything, and as they pull it out, it’s a book of Sanha’s drawings.

Not especially artistic, not skilled nor symbolic or deep, his drawings were. Crayon and cheap coloured pencil sketches, so many on printer paper, almost the entire folio is full. They flick through in silence, watching the dates come closer to the current one. In 2007, a drawing of the view outside his window, in a hospital on the other side of the world. Early 2009, a drawing of his birthday cake and a few nurses surrounding him in his bed. In 2013, a self-portrait of himself in a school uniform. Then, only four weeks prior to this moment, a drawing of he, Jinwoo, and Myungjun.

They have round, bulbous heads and spiky fingers and stick-figure limbs. They have straw-stiff hair, and crude and disproportionate abdomens. Sanha is in his hospital bed, a little pink scribble with wires snaking over him. Myungjun and Jinwoo are on either side of him, big red grins drawn on to cover the lower halves of their faces. In the bottom left corner, in messy handwriting, reads, _My Best Friends, Forever_.

Jinwoo sniffles, carefully unclipping the plastic sleeve from the folio and placing it aside. A small pile, only a box of character cards, a framed photo, and a crayon sketch on Jinwoo’s bedside table. In the silence, they help Boyeon repack the backpack, carefully zip it up. She doesn’t move from the end of the bed.

“I knew it was coming,” she whispers, fingers absentmindedly playing with the fraying ends of her hair. She sweeps her fingers over her scalp, pushing the hair away from her face. “He… He never had permanent friends. I knew that. I wanted him to have that chance…” She takes a deep breath, one hand soothing over Jinwoo’s shaking leg. “I’m sorry you two had to bear the weight of it,” she mutters, breathless, choked.

Jinwoo draws in a shaky breath, as if his lungs were refusing. “He was happy,” he says quietly, voice quivering. “That’s all that matters, right?”

\--

Jinwoo kicks his feet against the fence on the rooftop, fists shaking the fence with as much force as he can muster. Myungjun watches silently beside him, hands held behind his back. The fence rattles aggressively, Jinwoo’s IV wire wobbling in the air. After a few minutes of screeching at the air and scraping his knuckles on the fencing, he drops to his knees, a puddle of weak limbs on the rooftop floor.

Myungjun settles quietly beside him, tugs the sobbing boy into his chest, soothing a hand down his back. The boy’s bald head nuzzles into his chest, weak fists grasping at his shirt.

“Why, why, why?” He’d repeated. “Why wasn’t it me?”

Every time, Myungjun had shushed him, told him not to think about it – but now, Jinwoo is putting himself at risk, and Myungjun can’t bear to see him like this anymore. Can’t bear to see the bleeding scrapes on his hands and knees, to see those tell-tale bruises forming over his feet and arms. “Why should it be you, then? Why, Jinwoo?” Myungjun asks, sitting the boy up.

“I deserve it,” Jinwoo mumbles, gripping at Myungjun’s thigh, where his hand had been. “I lived longer than him. In less pain than him. I deserve to die more than he ever did,” Jinwoo sobs, deep, wracking, heaving sobs that shake him from his core.

Myungjun shakes his head, cups Jinwoo’s head in his hands. “No, no, no, JinJin,” he whispered, pulling the boy into his chest again. Softly, he presses a kiss to the top of Jinwoo’s head. “No one deserves to die, Jinwoo. It happened this way, there’s nothing we can do about it.” Jinwoo cranes his body to the side, leaning away from Myungjun to heave, but nothing comes out. “It hurts, I know it hurts, but, but-.”

“It hurts so much!” Jinwoo wails, tugging at Myungjun’s shirt, hiccupping.

“Jinwoo, listen to me, listen --,” he shushes, holding onto the boy tightly, as he begins to sway in his spot. “JinJin, listen to me. Calm down, baby,” he coos, rubbing circles over Jinwoo’s back. His shuddering recedes a little, into small tremors. “Sanha, he – he lived a very long, painful life. He was always in so much pain, you know? But now, now he’s okay. He will move onto his next life, or into heaven, and he won’t feel any pain, yeah? He’s okay, now.”

Jinwoo sobs again, wrapping his arms around Myungjun. “He might be watching us, you know? You have to smile for him, okay?”

\--

The two are invited to Sanha’s funeral later that week. Boyeon hands them a small letter with a collage of pictures of Sanha, but they can’t bear to open it and read the information.

They don’t make it – Jinwoo catches a bug and is bedridden, white blood cells too weak to protect him anymore. Myungjun sleeps beside him the night of, curled up in his sheets, running a cool washcloth over Jinwoo’s clammy face.

‘We’ll be okay’ he keeps saying, whispering into Jinwoo’s ear. And, maybe, they just might be, one day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know where to find me ;) cry @ me pls i love friends


	9. Bright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps for the only time in his life, _now or never_ might be the appropriate saying.   
>  “What if all the memories we have made aren’t the right ones?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> umm quality is dropping just lyk my grades soRRY anyway i promise to write binu later bc that seems to be most popular lol

The stars are shining brighter than usual.

They’ve pushed the chair up against the window, and are sitting together, squashed into one little armchair, peering out the window. Jinwoo has fine hairs growing on his scalp, that will fall out in about a day or two. His lips are held in a straight line, smiling far less often than he used too. Myungjun feels a sense of pride when he makes Jinwoo smile – sometimes, just walking into the room after school makes Jinwoo grin.

“You know,” Jinwoo says, interrupting the silence of the room. Everyone is asleep, the moon hovering directly above them as the clock turns into the very early hours of the morning. Myungjun had snuck out to go to the hospital, ran out after his mother had fallen asleep, even after she told him to stop visiting so often. “They say that stars are the souls of people who have died?”

“Really?” Myungjun asks, peering up into the inky black sky. Stars float in night air, sparkling and twinkling. Jinwoo’s thin hand falls over his own, their fingers lacing together only slightly – apprehensive. They’re both searching, trying to decide which star might be Sanha’s.

The stars are shining brighter than usual.

“If I die,” Jinwoo begins, sucking in a deep breath.

“You won’t.”

“But, if I _do_ ,” he continues, squeezing Myungjun’s hand lightly. “If I do, promise you’ll figure out which star I am?” He looks over at Myungjun, eyes watering a little bit. There was a life after death – in memories and fantasies. If Jinwoo became a star, Myungjun could still see him every day.

“You’d be the brightest star,” Myungjun whispers, turning his palm over so their fingers lace together. The brightest star, twinkling and vibrant and glowing, strong. The star that once guided sailors, the star that might lead Myungjun. It didn’t feel like enough – if Jinwoo were only a star, he would feel no touch, hear no voice, love no body. “I don’t want you to be a star.”

Jinwoo smiles softly. “I’d be more than a star, silly.” He replies. “I’d be a million memories.”

 _A million isn’t enough_ , Myungjun wants to say. _There’ll never be enough_. Not now, he thinks, not ever. Not even if they spent their entire lives together. He knew, already, that they wouldn’t. That no matter how much he loved Jinwoo, if Jinwoo survived, he could so easily move on.

He realises, now, as Jinwoo stares at him with stars in his eyes, that if he lost Jinwoo, he wouldn’t have done everything he wanted. It wasn’t a matter of not having enough memories, it wasn’t having the _right_ ones. He was in love with Jinwoo, yet they were only friends. Myungjun would miss the memories they hadn’t even created, would regret not ever telling Jinwoo how he really felt.

If Jinwoo died not knowing, whether he accepted Myungjun’s feelings or not, Myungjun knows he’d feel remorse until the day he too died.

“Are you okay?” Jinwoo asks, quietly, interrupting his thoughts. His free hand wipes over Myungjun’s cheeks, and it isn’t until he sees the glistening reflection of the moon on Jinwoo’s wet fingertips that he realises he’s been crying.

He brings his hands to his own face, wipes the tears away, a breath shuddering out of him. “Oh, sorry.”

“What’s wrong?” Jinwoo asks. “You can tell me.”

Perhaps for the only time in his life, _now or never_ might be the appropriate saying.

“What if all the memories we have made aren’t the right ones?”

Jinwoo’s brows furrow – “What do you mean?” His head tips to the side a little, hand returning to cup Myungjun’s chin. His fingers are cold as they scale over Myungjun’s full cheek, yet Myungjun accepts the nurturing, holds the touch within his own palm and presses his face into it.

He opens his mouth – but only air escapes, a dull little stutter, the beginning of an apprehensive admission. There’s something holding the words on the back of his tongue, makes him feel a little sick as it grapples at his confession. Be it guilt, or fear, the fiery burn of the instinct of danger.

“… I-.”

“You don’t have too, if you don’t want, yeah?” Jinwoo asks, sweeping Myungjun’s bangs out of his eyes and pressing the comfort of his palm into the crown of his head.

 _I have to_ , Myungjun thinks, staring at Jinwoo. Staring at his sunken cheeks and hollowed eyes that are still somehow so warm when he looks at him. Staring at the scars that line his skin and the evidence of how the disease has eaten away at him. If there was only so much time left, he wanted to spend it with Jinwoo understanding him inside and out.

“Jinwoo, I…” He starts, swallowing. Jinwoo smiles softly, smoothing that pads of his cold fingers over Myungjun’s warm cheeks. He can already feel them warming up, too, holding his red face in the palm of his large, weakened hands. It feels as if he has to rip the words out of his throat, “I like you.”

Jinwoo falters, eyes widening a little, a little stuttered murmur falling from his lips, indiscernible. The hand on Myungjun’s chin tightens a little, and he can’t decide whether or not he misses the weight that had slipped off his shoulders – perhaps, it was grounding. Myungjun feels as if he could float away, now, as if maybe he _should_. He feels Jinwoo’s hand shaking on the line of his jaw, watches his pink lips quiver.

“Jinwoo, I’m…” He starts, and the boy catches his lips beneath his top teeth, attempting to stop it from shaking. “I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have said that.” Myungjun pulls Jinwoo’s hand away from his face, and goes to run, but Jinwoo stops him, hand falling to his knee.

“Myungjun, wait… Wait…” The boy stares at Myungjun, eyes tracing over the face he knows so well, that he’s had mapped out since he was a kid. “You what?”

The boy sighs, throwing his face in his hands. Murmuring in his palms, hot from his red face, he responds, “Jinwoo, I like you. Maybe, I love you. I don’t know.” Myungjun is shaking, as he pulls his fingers away from his face. Jinwoo’s wide eyes are peering up at him, brimming with full, round tears, ready to spill. “I needed to tell you, even if you didn’t feel the same way. Because… Because, what if something happened, and I never got-.”

“I like you, too.”

It’s a weak response, dainty. It ghosts from between Jinwoo’s lips, smiling brightly despite the tears that are cascading down his cheeks. He sniffles, wiping at his face as he clutches onto his IV stand, hoisting himself up. Myungjun reaches down, fingers wrapping around his arms to aid him up.

“Say it again,” Myungjun breathes, unsure he heard him correctly.

Jinwoo grins, giggling as he repeats, “I like you, too.” He squeezes Myungjun’s hand faintly, a gentle press in his palm. “Maybe, I love you. I don’t know,” he teases, echoing Myungjun’s earlier confession. Myungjun’s lower lip quivers, and Jinwoo holds it beneath his thumb. “I thought you knew.”

Myungjun whispers, “No, no, I didn’t.” A smile tugs on the corners of his lips, as he holds Jinwoo’s hands in his own. Running his thumb over the bony backs of Jinwoo’s palms, holding them to his cheeks. He breathes deeply, trying to let his brain recalibrate, to assess the situation that had unfolded before his very eyes.

Jinwoo’s face is close to his, “Are you glad?” He asks, his warm breath fanning over Myungjun’s chin. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears, can feel it pounding against his chest. He nods minutely, unable to disguise his shock. Jinwoo’s hand falls to his chest, fingers running over his heartbeat. “Your heart is beating so fast,” he chuckles, pressing his fingers into Myungjun’s skin.

The brunet reaches out, too, going to push his own fingers over Jinwoo’s heart. His fingers run over small ridges of scars, over the catheter lodged in his central line, tries not to gasp. In these short moments, he was surprised how quickly he had forgotten that Jinwoo was no longer a normal boy. Jinwoo’s thin fingers, clutch over his, pull them away and up to his lips, pressing a kiss into Myungjun’s knuckles. A kiss so soft, it was hardly there – but Myungjun feels as if he’s on fire, every point on his body where Jinwoo touches burning.

“What do we do, now?” Jinwoo whispers. His eyes are sparkling, wide and brilliant, so different to his hollowed-out cheeks and thin, patchy hair. “Do we…?”

“Kiss me,” Myungjun suggests, an urgency to his tone, yet he only inches forward. Jinwoo’s breath is stuttering, fluttering over his lips as he sneaks closer. Myungjun feels as if his knees might give out, as if his heart might stop, as Jinwoo’s lips linger gently on his. Then, as Jinwoo’s grip on his arm tightens to a squeeze, he wonders briefly if he’s ever felt so happy. There’s an elated bubbling in his chest, like the warm champagne he and Jinwoo stole from his mother’s cupboard last year. His skin tingles with heat, burns with excitement.

“Is this what you meant?” Jinwoo whispers, eyes flickering down to Myungjun’s lips, fingers dusting curiously over his own. “When you said we had to make the right memories?”

Myungjun nods softly, breathless. Jinwoo is grinning, eyes sparkling. Perhaps it was the tears, or the dim hospital lights, or the light of the stars outside – but they were beautiful. “Can I… Can I kiss you, again?” Myungjun asks, swallowing as Jinwoo nods. Their lips press together gently, over almost as soon as it began.

Jinwoo grips his shoulder, “It feels weird, with everyone asleep in the room,” he murmurs, smirking.

“It’s okay,” Myungjun replies, snaking his arm beneath the wire of his IV stand and clutching onto his hip. “No one’s watching,” he giggles, capturing Jinwoo’s lips in his own again. It was addicting, to kiss someone and be kissed back with an equal amount of fervour and excitement.

They chat for a while longer, recounting the long and detailed tales of their long, thought-to-be unrequited loves, of their seemingly endless pining. Between kisses, and giggles, they share their secrets, hands wound together.

“I want to stay with you,” Myungjun whispers, pressing a kiss to Jinwoo’s forehead, as he peers at the clock on the opposite wall. It’s so early in the morning – he has to catch some sleep before school, and he has to be home before his mother realises he’s run off to the hospital, again. “But, I really have to go.”

“Five more minutes,” Jinwoo replies, tucking his head further in Myungjun’s chest.

A sigh, “You said that ten minutes ago.”

Another sigh, from the other boy. “Fine. At least let me walk you out?”

They clamber out of the armchair, making their way to the hallway outside. It’s much brighter out here, and Myungjun can see the faint dusting of pink on Jinwoo’s pale, hollow cheeks. Gently, he presses a kiss to his warm cheekbones, stepping back and waving.

Jinwoo waves, “You’re my boyfriend, now, right?” He asks, quietly.

“I think so,” Myungjun nods, a grin so wide he feels his cheeks hurt. Jinwoo mirrors this smile, one hand cupping his blushing face. “I’ll see you later, okay?” Jinwoo nods as he walks away, backwards, so they can still see each other.

As he finally turns the corner, he hears the faint squeak of Jinwoo’s IV stand roll back into his room. Leaning against the wall, he catches his breath, hand pressed against his rapidly beating heart.

For the first time in weeks, everything felt like it was piecing together. Was there anything that could spoil his mood?

 _The stars are shining brighter than usual_ , he thinks, as he steps back outside. _How pretty_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope this makes up for some of the things ive done, but uhhhh, wont last long oops sorry bye  
> you know where to find me ;)   
> hmu lets be friends im not mean pls

**Author's Note:**

> chapters will be small, and there will be a lot. i wanted this to be longer but!!! idk i couldnt get it to work.  
> you know where to find me ;) twitter and tumblr have the same username, @parkjinchu. hmu! cry @ me!


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